


Plausible Deniability

by Shirokokuro



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce is angsty and Gordon has the ugliest pair of dad slippers on the face of the planet, But especially Police Dad, Character Study, Everyone is tired, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, I mean the commissioner...right. That's what I meant., Jim Gordon is Police Dad, Jim Gordon is a Good Dad, Let Gordon sleep 2019, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 19:30:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20140801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: Despite how bizarre Jim's life is, there are still a few things that surprise him and a few things he regrets.





	Plausible Deniability

Their friendship exists purely within the realm of Gotham’s streets and the GCPD, so when Jim registers the sound of a cape whicker outside his window, he’s faintly curious. He would be shocked, honestly, if it weren’t for the fact he’s too exhausted to be blind-sided by anything right now.

Jim happened to be in the middle of his pre-sleep routine: making coffee, unloading the dishwasher, and shuffling about the kitchen in slippers so old that the fur lining the inside has long since matted and disintegrated away. Barbara’s been trying to replace the shoes for years, gifting him new pairs for Christmas and his birthday. One time, he even dug them out of the trash. (“Wonder how they got there,” Barbara commented innocently.) Needless to say, the slippers are still a crucial part of Jim’s sleep attire completed by a dilapidated bathrobe that acts in place of his usual trench coat. 

It’s right as Jim slides the carafe back beneath the coffee maker that he registers the window curtain push inward. A capsule of cold air expands into the space, stirring coffee smell into post-rain humidity. It raises the hair on the back of his neck. Jim knows he wouldn’t be able to sense the new presence if the man didn’t want him to.

Instead of addressing that obvious point, Jim simply situates his elbows on the window stool across the room and nurses his coffee. He’s looking out at the backyard through the open pane. The grass needs mowing again.

“You’re out late tonight,” he greets eventually.

“A lot needed doing.”

Jim tilts his head in the direction of the speaker. Batman looks oddly out of place here in the suburbs, spine poised against the white siding just to the right of the window. His arms are curled around himself a bit, and his expression looks more glazed than grim. It sets an odd tone.

“Anything I should be worried about?” the commissioner decides, noting gratefully that his friend doesn’t appear wounded.

“Nothing too drastic. Killer Moth made a go at…something.”

Jim’s expression withers into a cringe.

“Slipped and knocked himself out on the sidewalk.”

“Of course he did,” Jim sighs, talking a long swig of his coffee. The caffeine doesn’t even make a dent in his exhaustion—although it’s not like it did before anyway. Frankly, Jim’s probably the only cop in Gotham that is made sleepy by coffee instead of awake. The commissioner just shrugs at himself and takes another sip regardless. “Must’ve been a quiet night for you, then. I suppose tomorrow's me should consider himself lucky.”

Batman snorts, blank acceptance of the humor.

A quiet stretch captures the atmosphere then. The ball’s still in the vigilante’s court, so Jim lets it lie, instead enjoying the pastel glow that shines over the fence from the neighbor’s pool. They have a bad habit of leaving the underwater lights on overnight, but it makes for a calm ambiance right now with the distant slosh of water blending into cricket chirps.

“How’s your family been doing?” the vigilante asks sincerely.

Batman doesn’t do social visits, so Jim’s eyebrows rise at the question. “Fine as far as things go,” he offers, shaking off the surprise. “My Barbara’s off at a gymnastics tourney for the weekend. Wish I could’ve gone, but you know as well as I do that it’s been a circus here lately.”

“I’m sure she understands.”

“I like to think so.” Jim searches the bottom of his mug for a second. Most of his brew’s gone. “What about you?”

Jim already understands he won’t get a particularly descriptive answer. He knows who Batman is, and Batman knows that he knows, respects that being the commissioner requires plausible deniability on Jim’s side. Still, the older man laments the fact he can’t ever be a part of his friend’s life outside of cases and one, single memory. It’s an old one from when Jim was a rookie and Batman was just a boy grasping at pearls on concrete. Jim had stopped interviewing a suspect to help him find them all, collecting the beads in a spare evidence bag before closing the boy’s fingers around them. Jim likes to think it helped—being able to pick up the pieces. It’s hard to believe it’s been over two decades since then.

“Things are complicated,” Batman answers after a telling moment.

“Complicated…” Jim repeats to the yard outside. What he wants to do is ask about Dick Grayson and why he up and left to Blüdhaven months ago. He thinks that’s the reason for the sad laxness in Batman’s posture right now, but as always, Jim catches his tongue. _Don’t go there_, he reminds himself. It leaves him with not much more he can do, not much he can say.

This is about the time when Jim would blink and Batman would vanish. He keeps waiting, presents the vigilante small openings that aren’t taken. It’s obvious Batman came here for a reason, needs something, because he’s staying put. Jim thinks he knows why.

The commissioner pinches his nose beneath his glasses for a moment, a dull wave of helplessness washing over him. It’s true, really: When it comes to these matters, the ones that teeter more toward emotion and less toward profession, Jim can’t do much for someone he views as one of his own children. But still, he does what he can.

Batman flinches a look at him when Jim reaches out and sets a tired hand on his shoulder. Notably, the man doesn’t move away, and maybe Jim just imagines it, but the vigilante’s expression almost mirrors that same one he had years ago in that alley, lost and alone and searching for guidance. Jim gives his younger’s shoulder one last squeeze before turning back into the kitchen.

“Come on, son,” he says. “I’ll make you some coffee.”


End file.
